


Harsh Light of Day

by WhatsMyLine



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-23 11:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatsMyLine/pseuds/WhatsMyLine
Summary: "He lets out a shuttered breath instead, mumbles “Fucking hell, Tommy”, and rises slowly towards him. He doesn’t have a plan, doesn’t know what to do or say. He finds himself towering over Tommy, shuffling through a turmoil of emotions. Rage, because fuck Tommy Shelby for coming into his home asking favors, like he hadn’t shot him in the fucking face just down on that beach, and fuck him for bringing his fucked-up bullshit and broken head and dirty politics and perfectly sharp angles roaring back into Alfie’s life. Worry, because how could he not upon seeing those usually infallible eyes so clouded with doubt and simultaneously so sharp with grief and pain. Desire, because, well, it is Tommy fucking Shelby, after all. And then rage, again, for making him wage through an internal war of rage, worry, and desire in the first place."I can't stop obsessing about that look (you know, THAT look) Alfie dons before muttering "Good lord, your fucking condition has got worse" so I'm taking it from there, trying to get whatever it is I need to out of my damn head. No clue where this is going or for how long, but here we go.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 23
Kudos: 36





	1. After Life

_Good lord, your fucking condition has got worse, mate._

Alfie hadn’t been able to stop the observation from slipping out, brow furrowed and mouth set firm in a frown. How could he have, with Tommy standing there so brazenly indifferent to the gun cocked at him? It was equally infuriating and concerning. 

_Three, two, one, bang._

It wasn’t even ignorant arrogance, as it once had been, it was just… _emptiness_. Alfie had immediately wanted to shout, rise in a sudden violence, shoot a bullet into the bookcase just behind Tommy’s head, shake him roughly by his lapels, _anything_ to elicit some sort of normal, human response from the man. 

But he hadn’t, chose not to linger on the thought, at least not out loud. He had let his words ramble out to distract from his lapse, bring the conversation back to himself and his afterlife and Margate and shooting seagulls. No point in pushing the likes of Tommy Shelby into some form of psychoanalysis. Would probably loose the other eye if he were to endeavor. Binoculars were hard enough to see through as was. 

But he hadn’t altogether been able to help himself, and as their conversation waned and plans were set, Alfie found himself recounting dreams of black horses and goodbyes, met with startled tension, and after a pause, heard himself asking, “Right then, well, what now?” 

And so now here he sits, heart in his mouth, wondering if the man across from him will grace him with a response, tell him to fuck off, or just sit in stony silence until the passing of time washes the question away. For his part, Tommy is already sitting in stony silence, heaven forbid he adopt an air other than that, but he is also gazing at Alfie with a thoughtful and not entirely closed-off demeanor. 

“I will continue, until I find a man that I can’t defeat.” Tommy breathes it out, like it’s not just the most obvious answer there is but like it’s the _only_ answer that could possibly exist. Alfie fights the urge to roll his eyes, instead stoically watching as Tommy blinks evenly at him and fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket. He delicately extracts one, brings it to his lips and, leaning back and eyes still locked on Alfie, he lights it. Breathes in. Out. Waiting for Alfie’s response, like he doesn’t have a fucking care in the world. 

All he gets is a grunt. 

They sit in rare silence until Alfie finally clears his throat and leans forward. “Gotta stop at some point, yeah mate?” 

A rare smile tugs at Tommy’s mouth, but it appears as a sneer more than anything. Alfie watches as Tommy pulls on his cigarette again, shifts his focus towards the sea before flitting his eyes back to Alfie defiantly on his exhale. “Can’t fucking stop.” 

Another drag, another exhale. Another crooked half-smile, even less convincing than the first. The smoke billows between them, filling the silence.

The shift takes Alfie by surprise; Tommy’s shoulders sag suddenly, his frame tilting forward and, arms on his knees, he drops his head into his hands. Snakes his free hand over his face before peering back up at Alfie. “Can’t fucking stop.” 

The words come out shaky this time, almost breathless, the blue eyes piercing Alfie with determined desperation. It is like a kick to the fucking gut, that look, the utter exhaustion suddenly so clear behind it. Because Tommy Shelby staring him down with a mask of tailored indifference and intimidation is expected, almost to the point of comfort. Tommy Shelby appraising him with looks of unnerving intelligence and measured calm, with glints of schemes and even humor in his too-blue eyes, is a given. But Tommy Shelby leveling him with a look so lacking in calculation, so startlingly vulnerable, sends his world on tilt.

Alfie remembers the first time he met Tommy. Bruised and battered and bleeding, eyes blood shot and sunken, he still had offered an air of unequivocal authority and infuriating superiority. Like the world owed him everything, and he it nothing and, by god, he was going to get what was due. By sheer force of will. 

Yeah, it is safe to say that Alfie had taken to Tommy immediately, from that first glance of him so arrogantly strolling into his bakery. And when, later, Tommy had stared down the barrel of his gun without so much as a blink, blood dripping so damn casually from his nose, Alfie had felt something stir in him that he thought long lost. 

He had pushed it aside, of course, and set out with business as usual. Ignored the knots his stomach tied during their brief encounters over the years, ignored the jarring high he felt at finally being so fittingly challenged, and barreled forward with plans that suited him best; offering betrayal when it benefited him and then partnership in the same vein. It was easy to ignore the flutters, the admiration, the respect, the _desire_ , so long as it was business as usual. 

But now, in his dim sitting room, air clouded by Tommy’s smoke, Alfie feels himself get pulled into the fog. He wants to push himself violently from his chair, stride over, grab Tommy by the hair and punch his fucking lights outs. In equal measure, he wants to push himself violently from his chair, stride over, grab Tommy by the hair, and crush his lips against his. Take _his_ due. 

He lets out a shuttered breath instead, mumbles “ _Fucking hell, Tommy_ ”, and rises slowly towards him. He doesn’t have a plan, doesn’t know what to do or say. He finds himself towering over Tommy, shuffling through a turmoil of emotions. Rage, because fuck Tommy Shelby for coming into his home asking favors, like he hadn’t shot him in the fucking face just down on that beach, and fuck him for bringing his fucked-up bullshit and broken head and dirty politics and perfectly sharp angles roaring back into Alfie’s life. Worry, because how could he not upon seeing those usually infallible eyes so clouded with doubt and simultaneously so sharp with grief and pain. Desire, because, well, it is _Tommy fucking Shelby_ , after all. And then rage, again, for making him wage through an internal war of rage, worry, and desire in the first place. 

After a moment of frozen indecision, Alfie slides his hand under Tommy’s chin, forces his head up to meet his towering gaze. Doesn’t do so roughly, but also not gently. They stare at one and other unabashedly for several breaths, Tommy blinking languidly through his long lashes as they do, as if perfectly content to accept whatever fate Alfie chooses to deliver. Rage, worry, desire. The grandfather clock ticks loudly in his ears. Tick, tick, tick. Ten seconds pass, neither of them moving a muscle. Fifteen, twenty. 

It’d be so easy to lean down, capture those lips in his, try and kiss away that disturbing look in Tommy’s eyes. Put enough force into it to bruise those lips, take his revenge, articulate his fury without using his words, for once. Alfie feels himself almost twitch at the thought. But his eyes deftly catch the glint of Tommy’s gun hanging from his holster, and he hardens his jaw in resolve and releases his grip. Steps back and faces the sea, back to Tommy. Alfie says nothing, and lets the silence seep over them. 

Behind him he can hear Tommy shift in his seat and take a deep breath that instantly turns into a cough upon exhale. 

“Right,” The voice comes. The chair creeks in disapproval as Tommy stands and his voice has shifted back into its usual gruffness of cold and calm. “Birmingham, then. 6pm on the 4th.” The half-smoked cigarette unceremoniously flies by Alfie, landing still lit on the balcony. 

Alfie resists the urge to snap at this obvious gesture of disregard, and instead nods, refusing to turn and face Tommy. “They’ll be there,” He promises, and then listens stonily as the footsteps retreat and his front door clicks shut. 

He tries to be grateful for the departure. _Back to an afterlife of peace and solitude and reverence_ , he thinks. But in his new godly state he cannot deceive himself. Tommy Shelby has come back into his life, a shit storm far strengthened in his years of absence, and Alfie knows that he cannot fight getting sucked right back in. 

_Fuck._

Perhaps Margate is hell after all.


	2. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alfie worries his lower lip. Insanely wonders if he should take a trip to Warwickshire, force himself into that study and shake Tommy back into existence. But it’s a ridiculous thought, a passing one and he brushes it aside; dead men can’t just drop in on the living, after all."

Mosley doesn’t die.

Alfie sits, radio blaring flith next to him, waiting for the gunshot. But it doesn’t come. Mosley’s toxic words keep streaming forth and Alfie’s knuckles whiten as he grips the arms of his chair, bile rising in his throat, the taste of blood and metal and hate. But as the words continue and the minutes tick by, the anticipation of imminent death slowly turns stale. No death comes.

Instead, the stream of vulgar words continues. He thinks, _now, Tommy, now._ But there’s no shot echoing out. No disturbance except the distant rumbling of his men storming into the arena in the background, quickly deflated and forgotten, rageful speech and subsequent adoration drowning out any defiance.

When the broadcast ends, without climax, Alfie stays clenched in his chair.

_What the fuck happened?_

He has no way of knowing. It is rare that Tommy Shelby’s plans fail, but this one clearly has. So, Alfie is left sitting, staring at the sea, radio turning to static, wondering what the fuck could have gone wrong.

Mosley is not dead. Is Tommy?

He tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care.

But he stays up that night. It’s unusual for Alife, not sleeping. But he can’t pry himself from his perch, from staring into darkness, from hearing those words echoing menacingly in his ears. And more than anything he can’t stop from wondering if Tommy Shelby is laying somewhere, lifeless, a bullet lodged between those beautiful eyes.

\--

Two days pass with no word. On the third Alfie has had enough. Enough of waiting around, enough of trying to distract himself from the incessant sinking feeling deep in his gut. Enough of thinking about Tommy Shelby.

He’s alive, he knows that now, because he would have heard if so otherwise. But gathering news from a _lack_ of news does not satiate Alfie in any form.

The phone picks up on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Ollie.” There’s a long pause, and Alfie can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

“Boss!” He exclaims, finally. “How’re-“ Alfie doesn’t have time for it.

“Yeah, listen, need you to do some digging, figure out what the fuck went wrong the other night, yeah?”

“Someone must have snitched, boss, because Mosley’s alive and word is some Blinders are dead.” Alfie grits his teeth, wills himself patience. 

“Yes, obviously Ollie, but find out what actually _happened_ , yeah?”

“Ok, yeah, I got it.”

“And Ollie?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “We still got ins at Arrow House?”

“Er, yes, we do…”

“Good. Do some digging on the current…” He searches for the right word, can’t come up with one, “ _state_ of Thomas Shelby, too.”

\--

Alfie is loath to admit it, but he is impressed when Ollie rings back early the next morning with news. Was expecting another few torturous days of waiting in the dark, wasn’t he? But his relief in hearing from him quickly diminishes. There’s little news to report.

Ollie tells him first of the event. Of his men, doing their duty with gusto, of the chaos that ensued but that was then quickly tampered down. How later, after the crowd began to disperse, the bodies were found. That gypsy friend of Tommy’s, something Gold. An escaped insane asylum patient, lying lifeless next to a sniper riffle in the balcony (Alfie shakes his head at this, exasperated, thinks, _only Tommy)_. And backstage, some unknown assailant who failed to snuff the lights out of Arthur Shelby, like so many before him.

When Alfie asks what went wrong, Ollie has nothing for him. Just says that Birmingham is buzzing with talk, and though its residents know nothing of what Tommy had planned, the word most often muttered in dark alleys is ‘betrayal’.

Well, this is nothing new, either. Obviously, someone tipped Mosley off. “Anyone in particular the fingers seem to be pointing towards?” Ollie falls silent at the question. “Ollie?”

“Well, yeah… _you_ , Alfie.” Alfie snorts. _Him?_ It’s ridiculous. What in the world could Alfie have possibly had to gain by allowing that devil of a man to live? No way any of the fingers pointing at him belong to Tommy. Tommy would know better. …

Then again, Alfie didn’t have the best track record when it came to _not_ crossing Tommy. _Fuck,_ he’ll have to cross that bridge when, if, he gets there. But for now, he files it away and asks the only question he really cares about.

“What’s the news on Shelby?”

Ollie hesitates again, but then the words tumble forth, tripping over one and other, a landslide of mud.

Alfie closes his eyes and leans back in his chair as he listens. Tommy Shelby has disappeared into that ridiculous house of his, and only the maids have seen him since. Came stumbling out the fog the night of the speech, Arthur dragging him roughly inside, blood-spattered on his face. Once in, he’d shoved Arthur off and retreated to his study without a word, where he hasn’t left since. The maids see him only when the whiskey and cigarettes run low, retrieve plates of untouched food outside his door, and turn away any and all would-be visitors, wife and children included.

And that’s it, all the information Ollie has been able to acquire. It’s _something_ , at least.

Alfie sits a while after hanging up, contemplating the fantastically self-destructive tendencies of Tommy, in particular, his occasional inclination to hole himself up in a dark room and drink himself into oblivion instead of facing the harsh light of day. Perhaps this time he’ll actually succeed in drinking himself to death.

Alfie worries his lower lip. Insanely wonders if he should take a trip to Warwickshire, force himself into that study and shake Tommy back into existence. But it’s a ridiculous thought, a passing one and he brushes it aside; dead men can’t just drop in on the living, after all.

Alfie shakes his head to free himself of thoughts and decides it’s time for a cuppa. He’s only just out of his chair when the doorbell rings, followed by a few light raps on the door. He goes to the window to peer out to the front door.

Alfie should be shocked to find the man in question standing on his doorstep, but he finds he’s not. He’s relieved, if anything, but not surprised. Like he has sensed his nearing without realizing it. He starts towards the front hall and then falters, his mind roaring in protest, shouting out about betrayal and pointed fingers.

So Alfie grabs his gun from the table before he goes to open the door.

\--

“Morning, Tommy.”

The first thing Alfie clocks is that Tommy is not wearing a harness, nor seems to have a gun anywhere else on him. Doesn’t even have his cap on, adorned with razor blades. There’s not much else he has time to notice because Tommy opens his arms wide, sloppily, lowly exclaims “Alfie!” and steps in. He brings one hand to rest on Alfie’s shoulder and the other follows to his opposite side, sneaks around to cup the base of Alfie’s head. Before Alfie can register it, their foreheads are almost touching, the skin on his neck prickling dangerously where Tommy’s hand lays.

“Alfie,” He says again, his voice is warm and rough, and he's squeezing his shoulder and patting his neck like Alfie is some long-lost comrade.

He has seen this in Tommy before, this ease of touch and affection. Has seen him lure his family and friends into comforting and strangely intimate embraces. At first it had caught him by surprise, watching this cold and detached man so readily drawing others near. But he’d quickly seen it for what it was- a commander, reaching in, embracing his shattered men to imbue some semblance of calm and confidence and to, in the end, ensure order above all else.

How often had his brothers and soldiers been on the brink of breaking only to be grounded by Tommy pulling them in close, speaking in soft even tones, dragging them back into the reality of his own determined confidence?

 _You’re fine, just do what I say._ That’s what the close gestures really said. And so often the recipients of said gestures would respond with eyes glazed, sudden compliance and relief washing over them as they relinquished the control they so desperately yearned to be rid of.

It is one of the things Alfie admires about him; Tommy Shelby knows how to give men the order they need and at the same time absorb their unwanted chaos- take control, no matter the circumstance, and keep all responsibility for himself.

The closest Alfie has experienced to such treatment was years ago, when he’d railed in rage at Tommy for the accusation of crossing a line. And when he’d finished his tirade, breathing heavily, spit clinging to his beard, face inches from Tommy’s, Tommy had gently cupped his arm, and quietly but steadfastly said “ _Well said Alfie, well said”,_ and Alfie had struggled between triumph and annoyance, because he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow being condescended.

But now, in this embrace, Alfie knows the attempt of control is worlds away. The hand behind his neck, the hand on his shoulder, the warm breath that spills onto Alfie’s face- there is little assuredness in it. He can tell because Tommy’s lips, so close to his own, are slightly quivering in their forced smile, and the breath he exhales reeks of whiskey. It is more like Tommy is holding on to Alfie to keep himself held together, rather than the opposite.

Clearly, Tommy is _drunk._ Maybe something more than drunk. Either way, control is the last thing he has. Alfie feels a pang of annoyance at the pretense of normalcy he is attempting to exude. He reaches his hand to Tommy’s behind his neck, disengages it, pushes him away.

“Bloody hell, Tom, you stop with the bottle or just dive right into the barrel?”

Tommy lets out an uncharacteristically loud laugh, disturbingly void of actual mirth, and clumsily pushes past Alfie into the house, leaving the question in his wake. Alfie huffs in annoyance. “Right mate, come the fuck on in, eh? Make yourself right at home.” But he doesn’t protest further and follows Tommy as he strides- more like stumbles- into his living room and flops onto the chair he occupied last he was here.

Alfie follows suit, eases himself into the chair opposite, and laces his hands together, fixing Tommy with an expectant look. “Well?”

But Tommy isn’t looking at him, doesn’t hear him. He is staring back out at the sea, flat calm today, absentmindedly running a cigarette between his lips. Alfie takes the pause to look at Tommy, take him in fully.

He looks like shit. His hair, usually so kempt, flies in every direction. His eyes are skewed, as if unable to focus on one point, sunken and black, clearly notating a lack of sleep. An angry bruise paints his left cheek, and a perfectly cylindrical one shines on his right temple. This gives Alfie pause, this second bruise, because he’s pretty damn sure he knows what it is that put it there. He wonders whose hand it was that pressed the gun so violently into Tommy’s skull. Whoever it was is likely dead.

All he gets from his brief appraisal is more questions so, patience wearing thin, he clears his throat, barks out, “Oi, Shelby!” Tommy snaps his eyes to Alfie’s, looking shocked to find him sitting across from him. As if finding Alfie in his own bloody living room is a strange development. Alfie clenches his fists. “What the fuck happened, eh? Seem to recall sitting right here, just like this, not a week ago, you telling me you’d put that Mosley fuck in the ground. Well, he’s still out there merrily spreading the joy of fascism and here you are, gracing my doorstep at eight in the morning, swimming in booze by the looks of it.”

Tommy sighs, leans his head back and fixes his gaze on the ceiling. Breathes out a shuddered breath, “I don’t know.” Looks at Alfie again, probing for something. “I don’t fucking know.”

Alfie blinks. Tommy Shelby is a man who knows things. And when he doesn’t, he damn well pretends until he actually does know. So, this admission, given with such desperation, throws Alfie for a moment. Just a moment, though, because he _is_ Alfie Solomons, after all, and fuck it he’s going to let a cunt like Tommy keep him off balance.

“Can’t fucking figure it out,” He’s looking past Alfie now, eyes glazed and unfocused. “Been through it over and over. Betrayed, but by who? Mosley didn’t know, didn’t have a fucking clue. Only people who _did_ know are either dead or family.” His focus comes back to Alfie. “And you.”

Tommy slides his gaze down to Alfie’s hand, which has tensed around the gun that, until now, Alfie forgot he had been holding. He quirks an eyebrow. “You can put that away, Alfie, I know it wasn’t you.”

Alfie grunts, keeps the gun in his hand. Tommy shrugs, finally lights the cigarette hanging in his mouth, hands shaking slightly.

“Got any whiskey, Alfie?” Alfie rolls his eyes.

“No.” He takes a deep breath, readying himself. “I don’t have any bloody whisky, Tommy. It ever occur to you, eh, that you ain’t going to find your answers at the bottom of some bloody bottle? Yeah? It’s no fucking wonder you don’t know shit, sitting holed up in that castle of yours, moping around like a child.” This earns Alfie a stony glare, but he deftly ignores in, plowing on. “Drinking through the night and day, not sleeping, not seeing anyone, not even that godforsaken family of yours, from what I hear.”

“From what you-“ But Alfie’s gained steam now, and he waves his free hand in the air, as if swatting away a fly, not allowing the interruption.

“So what, that why you’re here now? Hoping ol’ Alfie can help you sort through this fucking mess? Pull the answers from thin air? Seems like a thing a god should be able to do, dunnit? Or’d you just fancy yourself some sea air, decide shooting seagulls and watching boats isn’t such a bad time after all? Eh? What the fuck are you doing here, Tommy?” He levels Tommy with a menacing stare, waits for any sort of explanation. He doesn’t get one, just a slight smirk.

“You been checking up on me, Alfie?” Alfie wants to punch the smugness off his face. Settles instead for slamming his gun down violently on the table beside him and pushing himself out of his chair.

“Know what? I’ve got better shit to do. Get the fuck out.” He points to the door. Tommy doesn’t move. “I’m fucking serious, mate. Get. Out.”

Alfie isn’t entirely sure why he is so angry, where it comes from so suddenly and so violently. Though not knowing is nothing new, his anger tending to have a mind of its own. But angry he is, so much so that he has to ball his fists to keep his hands from shaking.

It could be Tommy’s refusal to provide him with any helpful information, his inability to just answer a damn question straight. Or that Tommy looks like death, and it worries Alfie, and the worry annoys him, just as much as Tommy’s insistence on pretense does. Or that, even looking like death, Tommy somehow manages to look _good_ , good in a way that makes Alfie’s stomach clench and heart beat just a bit faster. Or that here he is again, back in that cyclone of rage, worry, and desire.

Or maybe he just doesn’t fucking appreciate drunk assholes showing up on his doorstep at eight in the morning.

Point is, he’s fucking angry, and after days of worrying about none other than Tommy fucking Shelby the release feels good.

Tommy stands, swaying slightly. “Listen, Alfie-“ But Alfie doesn’t want to hear it. After desperately hoping to see Tommy all week he now desperately wants him gone. He’s tired. He wants his morning tea and biscuits and to stare out at the sea with his one good eye. He doesn’t want to be standing here, running in circles with the infuriating man before him.

So, he reaches forward and grabs Tommy roughly by his neck, pushing him out of the room and into the hallway. Tommy struggles against him unsuccessfully, stumbling as Alfie half pushes and half drags him towards the door. “Jesus, ok, Alfie, I’m fucking going, eh?” He finally manages to shake free from Alfie’s grip and opens the front door.

Parked on the curb is his Bentley. Alfie can see Tommy’s holster and gun on the passenger seat through the window. And next to it a bottle of what must be whiskey. Maybe rum. _Fuck._

He hadn’t even considered how Tommy had gotten to Margate in the first place. But now it is plain as day- the idiot had driven himself. Must have left Birmingham at four in the morning to make it to Alfie’s by this hour, and did it lit out of his mind too. Or maybe he’d been sober (Alfie almost snorts at this thought) when he’d left, drowning himself in the bottle on the drive down.

Either way, it’s a miracle he made it, and Alfie’s not a gambling man, isn’t willing to risk the same on the return trip. He grabs Tommy’s arm to stop him.

“Give me your keys, Tommy.”

Tommy blinks up at him, confused. “What?”

“Your keys, can’t drive like this.”

Tommy laughs, and this time it is genuine. “Oh, fuck off, Alfie.” He says it with slight exasperation, but lightheartedly, like the two of them are having a good joke.

“I’m serious, give me your keys.”

Tommy frowns now. “And how am I supposed to get home, eh?”

Alfie shrugs. “Not my problem.” He holds a hand out expectantly.

Tommy surprises the hell out of them both by complying. Alfie can tell by the dazed look on Tommy’s face, the way he is blinking down at the keys, now in Alfie’s hand, that Tommy had planned on putting up much more of a fight. And that he has no idea why he didn’t. _Doesn’t matter,_ Alfie thinks.

“Right,” He says. “When you’ve sobered up you can have em back. But don’t come back before five, eh? You’ve already ruined enough of my day.”

Tommy opens his mouth to protest, begins to, says, “What am I suppose-“

Alfie slams the door in his face, not caring to hear any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I forgot how hard writing is, especially when you've no idea where you're going until it just takes you there! Few notes:
> 
> -I hate naming chapters. I want to, but it feels overwhelming. Suggestions welcome! **upon further thought I've decided to embrace my Buffy obsession (is it obvious?) and gift each chapter with a relevant episode title.  
> -Apparently, I can write far too lengthily on just one simple movement of Tommy's  
> -I haven't decided yet if Alfie's cancer is going to be a thing or not in this cannon.  
> \- I promise at some point to write interactions that last more than a couple minutes...  
> -I told myself I was going to finish this and wait a few days, and then do one final read-through and post. But I'm too eager to share for that. So you'll likely see me going back to old chapters and adding little edits, like I am about to do with chapter 1.


	3. Listening to Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn’t planned on getting so unceremoniously kicked out of Alfie’s house, just five short minutes after entering. Then again, he hadn’t planned on much, unusual for him, when he’d slid into his car and began his muddled drive to Margate. But certainly, whatever he had expected, it wasn’t to be standing here now, turned out into the cold December air with no means to take himself elsewhere.

Tommy blinks stupidly at the door that’s just been slammed in his face.

Through his fog of whiskey, he tries to piece together what has just happened.

He hadn’t planned on getting so unceremoniously kicked out of Alfie’s house, just five short minutes after entering. Then again, he hadn’t planned on much, unusual for him, when he’d slid into his car and began his muddled drive to Margate. But certainly, whatever he had expected, it wasn’t to be standing here now, turned out into the cold December air with no means to take himself elsewhere.

Alfie’s anger, so unpredictable, had caught him off guard, even knowing, having witnessed so many times, what a volatile beast it could be. It is unreasonable for him to stand here, surprised. Because of course some part of him knows he’d been looking to provoke it.

That’s the thing about Alfie. His anger. His erratic mood swings. Tommy fucking thrives off it. Loves how truly he doesn’t know where an interaction will lead, for once in his life. Schemes and calculations so easily dashed; it makes him feel alive.

It is what also drives the unyielding urge to offer detached defiance when faced with the man. Tommy can sense when Alfie is on the brink (which is often), that precarious moment when it’s a gamble if he’ll shift to anger or humor or feigned indifference. He finds himself continually pushing to see where it lands, and to what end he has rarely cared. Alfie is a solution to his need for ordered chaos, his inexplicable determination to remain in a constant state of peril. A catharsis for his unrelenting need for _more._

So, he had known the danger when, just minutes ago, instead of responding seriously to Alfie’s questions he’d replied with a smug smile and petulant retort. He had sensed the fragility of Alfie’s mood and known that he was treading a fine line and that the reply could go either way. But in his drunken haze he hadn’t actually dwelled much on it and had been surprised and dismayed at Alfie’s refusal to engage him. Couldn’t quite reconcile being left astonished, standing stranded on Alfie’s stoop. Alfie usually has a bit more tolerance than he has displayed just now, and Tommy doesn’t have it in him to decipher what had shifted.

A few more blank blinks and Tommy turns and heads towards his car, rounding to the passenger side with little grace. He has few options, from here on out, and so he reaches in and shrugs into his holster, placing his gun snuggly into it, and then grabs his coat from the back seat and works his way into that as well.

The bottle of whisky, only a quarter gone, still sits in the passenger seat. He contemplates it. Contemplates Alfie’s words, that he come back only when sober and only after five if he wants to reclaim his keys. It’s the nagging urge to defy and push Alfie, or fuck it, anyone that deigns tell him what to do, that makes him grab the bottle, and then also fish into the glove compartment for the small brown vial.

Screw Alfie Solomons and his demands; he’s Tommy Shelby, OBE, MP, and he’ll do as he damn pleases.

And so he stumbles forward, vices in hand, and finds himself on the beach. The same beach on which he’d shakily held a gun and aimed it at Alfie’s head and pulled the trigger with bile in his throat. He walks until his legs wobble, until he can’t help himself from sinking into the sand. He doesn’t make it far.

Tommy uncorks the whiskey and takes a long hard pull. The last few days have been a haze. 

His memory since the rally starts with the field, set heavy in fog. With Grace, calmly trying to lure him into peace. He is still baffled by his continued resistance to it. Why wouldn’t he just welcome her offer with open arms? Take his leave and breathe easy at last? Apparently, the stubborn fight to survive still lingers in him strong, because she had whispered seductions of death and rest into his ears, and in turn he had let out screams of defiance.

And then, suddenly, Arthur had appeared. His eyes frantic, shaking hands reaching out towards Tommy desperately, pleading with him to put the gun down. Taking hesitant steps towards him as if he were a spooked horse. The look in Arthur’s eyes had given him pause, because Tommy has never been able to bare seeing such terror in the people he loves. How could he even fathom doing such a thing in Arthur’s presence, a man already so haunted? So, he had let Arthur’s fear take charge, relaxed his grip, just barely, and Arthur had strode forward, fiercely knocking away the hand holding the gun to his head. He had immediately followed the action by delivering a shattering blow to his face to further disarm him.

The following hours and days are less clear. A haze of confusion and then whiskey and gin, of no sleep, of trying to discern what the hell had happened and how the fuck he was meant to go on. Of trying desperately to shut out the roar of guilt and self-loathing that consumed him, rising exponential with each minute. And then, days in- knowing he needed rest but knowing rest would drive him to the brink, just as before- there was one clarifying thought.

_Alfie._

He could go to Alfie, and there he could rest, and there the rest wouldn’t drive him to madness because Alfie would ramble the hours away and distract his mind from the hells it conjured with his bullshit overtures and nonsensical reflections.

So, without further thought he had gathered himself, his vices, and headed to his car, slipping out of his house, unnoticed.

But he had drastically misinterpreted the situation, clearly, as he now sits alone on a deserted beach with nothing but his own treacherous thoughts. He sinks his hand into his coat pocket, draws the vial out, uncorking it with his thumb, and takes a small swig.

There’s a flash of blonde in his peripheral, but he ignores it, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The calm waves of the sea lap lazily against his booze-soaked mind, and he leans back, letting darkness take him.

\---

Tommy wakes in a sweat. It is nearly dark now, and the nightmares have dragged him out of sleep with merciless violence. Shovels and screams and suffocation. He gasps desperately for air, wretches up and forwards trying to clear his lungs from the mud of which he dreamt.

The dreams are incessant, horrific reminders of times past. But he can’t quite decide if they are worse than what plagues him in waking hours, when seemingly nothing drives him to panic. Sometimes it is a noise or a scent, but it is worst when it is nothing at all. One minute he is fine and the next he feels his pulse rising, a sheen of sweat on his brow, the need to disappear from the world urgent.

The dreams conjure violent memories, but the panic in waking hours is random. At least with the dreams he can control the terror by refusing sleep, but the fear that rises during consciousness he has no control over. Remnants of memories that escalate without his notice until full blown, until he is shaking and sweating and gasping for breath with no tangible trigger to blame.

In those waking hours of terror, he needs silence and solitude to find calm. As if the years in the numb darkness of tunnels have stripped him of the capability to cope with any external stimuli. But in the sleeping hours of dreams, it is the opposite. It is the maddening sound of scraping shovels and the heavy breathing of his fellow soldiers that haunt him, and it is human touch he craves, to help drown out the crushing loneliness of it all and hold him tight.

He doesn’t know how to reconcile the two.

Now, Tommy slowly adjusts to his surroundings, embracing the awareness that he is indeed above ground, lying flat on coarse sand, not deep in mud. He can breathe, and he does, and shifts painfully to bring himself to a full sit.

Somehow, the brown vial is still in his right hand, the precious liquid not having leaked a drop. He brings it mindlessly to his lips, gulps the remainder down.

Grace is there, per usual. But since that night on the fog-drenched field, she has shifted. No longer whispers comfortingly into his ear about the bliss of the end and being together, and instead spills vitriol in his direction. Harsh, true words, telling him of his worthlessness. Of his selfish acts that have caused only pain and suffering. He has tried to erase her voice from his head, these past days, roughly dragging his hands over is eyes and ears to stop the words. But to no avail.

Ada had told him to stop. Said it was the opium that made Grace come to him. And she may well be right, but Tommy is too scared to test that theory. Because what happens if he stops the laudanum and she’s still there? What does that say of his mind? No, he’d rather continue and not know.

When she speaks to him now, voice seething quietly, he doesn’t at first register that his hand has reached into his holster and unleashed his gun.

And then he does, staring down at it blankly, wondering again why the fuck he’s resisting the absolution the cold metal is so diligently promising. But resist he does, and as the sea continues to lap calmly on the sand, he brings his knees to his chest and drops his head into his arms, gun cradled behind his skull.

Tommy stays like that for a while, breathing deeply, in and out, until on his peripheral he hears a noise, distinctly human, and instincts rearing, he snaps the gun up, cocked, and points it shakily into the growing darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I'll get there eventually. 
> 
> Next chapter I am contemplating, 'As You Were'. Or maybe 'Dead Things'. There are so many perfect BtVS titles that suit this angsty fandom...Conversations with Dead People, Lie to Me, The Killer in Me, Gone, Wrecked, Smashed, Killed by Death, and so many more. AND so many that suit the fluff of it too...Fool for Love, I Was Made to Love You, Something Blue (Something BLUE, guys!), I Only Have Eyes for You, Once more with Feeling. Suddenly this may be shaping into a much longer work than I had anticipated.
> 
> Thanks for reading and feedback appreciated!


	4. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he nears, Alfie pauses to take Tommy in. He’s sitting in a tight ball, knees to his chest, head down and wrapped protectively in his arms. The unease spreads further through Alife as he registers the gun and the whiskey. The gun dangles precariously from Tommy’s hand, resting carelessly at the base of his head. The whiskey sits in the sand beside him, uncorked and half gone. Tommy is dead still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't stop, won't stop. This is a long one!
> 
> Thanks so much for the kudos and comments!

Alfie’s day does not improve much after he has expelled his morning visitor.

He makes his tea and sits in his chair, and shortly after hears Anita let herself in.

It grates on him. The last thing he wants is another presence in his house. He’s never understood it, peoples need to have some stranger live in their home, not-so-secretly watching their every move.

Alfie is a seeker of solitude, at the end of the day. But he’s also a man who enjoys the ease of luxury, and so after he’d recovered enough from the shot to his face and dismissed his live-in nurse, he had still hired help, just part-time, of course. It has been nice, these past years, to have the occasional company to look forward to. Because there’s solitude, and then there’s isolation.

But today company is the last thing he wants, even if it is the quiet company of Anita, who can aptly sense when her presence is unwanted. He does his best to avoid her, leaving rooms she enters to tidy, and it is easy, especially when she retreats to the kitchen to start preparing for the day’s meals.

But he is restless all day, can’t find the absolution that normally comes by looking through his binoculars. He tries to read but the words blur tediously before him. Thinks about shooting seagulls but feels none of his usual affinity towards it.

More than anything, as the hours drag on, he tries not to think about Tommy. To not worry over the jagged helplessness he had let slip into his eyes briefly this morning. Tries to resist the urge to rush out, find the man and drag him back into the warmth of his house. But as with anything, the more he tries not to think of it, the more he does.

\--

It’s nearly six when he finally slips on his coat and laces his shoes. He had shooed Anita out an hour before, patience with her presence finally wrought. His nerves are shot. He had been so sure that Tommy, ever defiant, would turn back up on his doorstep, well before five, demanding his keys. But he hadn’t, and as the minutes ticked on past the hour, Alfie, consumed with unease, and had finally given in.

It doesn’t take him long to find Tommy, just a few hundred meters down the beach. He’s surprised he hadn’t noticed him through the binoculars, but he’s never paid much heed to the beach itself. Is glad he hadn’t; it wouldn’t have helped his earlier resolve if he had seen him sitting there.

As he nears, Alfie pauses to take Tommy in. He’s sitting in a tight ball, knees to his chest, head down and wrapped protectively in his arms. The unease spreads further through Alife as he registers the gun and the whiskey. The gun dangles precariously from Tommy’s hand, resting carelessly at the base of his head. The whiskey sits in the sand beside him, uncorked and half gone. Tommy is dead still.

Not surprisingly, it is the gun that sets off the alarm bells loudest, but oddly not in regard for his own safety. Not at first, at least. Because what reason in hell would Tommy have to unholster his gun in the first place? The beach is empty, safe as houses. And coupled with his clearly distraught pose… _fuck._

Alfie thinks back to the cylindrical bruise on Tommy’s temple and feels a fool for having so daftly wondered who had put it there. Convinced that whoever had was dead already, though in some way this still rings true. It is clear as day now, that Tommy himself had been the one to put it there. Of course, he had been. Hadn’t it been his fragile mental state that had jarred Alfie so immediately upon their meeting the other day?

He can’t ignore the sharp pain in his chest at the realization. This isn’t the Tommy he knows. The Tommy who would stride into a room and immediately draw every gaze to him with his imposing confidence and indifference to the world around him. Who would sit teetering on the edge of patience through Alfie’s ramblings, at the same time trying to hide his begrudging amusement. Who would occasionally let the corner of his lip twitch in response to something Alfie had said, the lightness of humor almost reaching his eyes, a tiny gift that would stay with Alfie for days afterwards.

Sure, there was always a dangerous darkness lingering just beneath the surface, an unhealthy disregard for his own well-being. But this was not unusual among the broken men who had returned from France. Through it all Tommy had always exuded control and cunning and defiance. And whether it was simply a well-maintained mask of pretense, Alfie had always thrived on it.

The man before him now is a shell of that Tommy Shelby, and Alfie wants to lunge forward and grab him, shake him violently until something familiar resurfaces, anger even, anything akin to normalcy that he can cling to.

He contemplates turning back to the house. He’s in way over his head. He knows better than to approach a man who on the best of days is dangerous and unpredictable, and who is now drunk, armed, and clearly unstable. But he finds his feet moving him closer even as his mind protests in alarm.

He clears his throat as he does, and immediately Tommy’s arm snaps in his direction, his head following, gun glinting menacingly towards Alfie in the waning sunlight. Alfie halts his movement.

“Gonna shoot me again on this fucking beach, Tommy? Cause that’d just be rude.” Recognition flutters into Tommy’s eyes, and he lowers the gun. Keeps it in his grip, but his hand flops uselessly into the sand next to him.

Alfie starts forward again and when he reaches Tommy, he achingly lowers himself next to him. Tommy stays silent, his eyes now locked on the horizon.

Alfie nods towards the bruise on his left cheek, asks, “So, who’d you piss off enough to warrant that blow?”

A pause.

“Arthur.”

“Mhm.” Arthur, that wild animal of a brother of his, so drastically different than Tommy. No control, hardly any self-awareness, just the pure brutality of instinct and rage. Alfie had once reveled in the existence of Arthur, elated at how easy it was to push him to the brink and watch him fail spectacularly at reigning himself in.

He can’t quite find the same joy in it now, seeing its result splayed angrily on Tommy’s face.

Alfie reaches out, brushes his fingers lightly against Tommy’s temple. “And this?”

Tommy flinches from his touch, slides his eyes over to Alfie without turning his head before snapping them back to the sea. He doesn’t respond. It is all the confirmation Alife needs, not that he does.

“Mhm,” He sounds again, quietly. “Thought so.”

They sit in silence for a while, Alfie unsure of what to say as the sun finally disappears. When he does start talking, it’s back to the ships that he watches come and go throughout the days, their size, their gait, where they might be heading, and with what on board. As he talks, Alfie slowly moves his left hand to Tommy’s right, where it still lays limp in the sand. His skin is ice when he reaches it, almost making him recoil, but he continues on, words tumbling forth, and gently slides the gun from Tommy’s grip.

Tommy lets him.

When Alfie quiets a few minutes later almost all light has left the sky. He’s sharply aware that Tommy has still only said one word since his arrival, that he has still not looked at him but for the one quick glance. Even more, he’s aware of the growing cold in the air that the winter night is ushering forth.

So, he stands wordlessly, shoving the gun into his coat pocket, and reaches a hand down to Tommy. Tommy takes it, and when he pulls himself up they are standing face to face, inches apart. Alfie can smell the whiskey on Tommy’s breath, tinged with something sweeter, can feel his even breaths on his face.

He fights an unfamiliar impulse. Not one to greedily grab what he has resisted wanting for so long, but one to comfort. It’s a strange feeling, that. One he assuredly does not like. But he wants so badly to pull Tommy into him, crush his head into the nape of his neck, and wrap him in a warm, grounding embrace. He might, too, but Tommy steps back before he can, and reaches down to retrieve the bottle of whiskey.

In a flash of frustration, Alfie rips the whiskey from his hands, and with a heave sends it sailing towards the sea. Tommy’s gaze follows the bottle, watches shocked as it spins through the air, brown liquid spiraling out, and lands into the water with a plunk. Sets his eyes back to Alfie, narrowed.

“The fuck you do that-“

But Alfie turns from him wordlessly, strides back in the direction of the house. A moment passes and he hears Tommy curse behind him, but then move, sullenly following.

\--

They arrive back at the house to a lit fire and a savory waft emanating from what must be the kitchen. The warmth as they step in brings Tommy back to himself, somewhat. Begins to clear the haze that had clouded his brain on the beach and chases the chill out of his bones. Grace has vanished, and he’s grateful, lacking the energy to focus on more than one ghost at a time.

Which drags his focus to Alfie, who is staring at him, expression inscrutable as they remove their overcoats. He resists the urge to snap at him, pulls back the snide comment threatening to form on his tongue.

No point. Alfie would see right through it, see his attempt to nonchalantly paint over the state in which he’d been found on the beach. If anything, it’d only serve to bring it up, invite Alfie to make some casual yet insightful remark, likely laced with metaphor. Or worse, it’d provoke prying questions. So, Tommy resists, hangs his coat, and moves past him, up the stairs and into the living room.

Alfie shuffles off, mumbling something about stew and a woman named Anita, and returns with two bowls, steaming.

They settle into their respective chairs. Tommy distractedly brings a few spoonsful to his mouth, letting the broth warm him from the inside out. But he quickly gives up, lets the remainder of it turn cold, untouched. As usual, he has little appetite. Thinks longingly of the whiskey Alfie sent flying into the sea.

Instead, he retrieves a newspaper he has spied in a discarded and unread pile in a corner of the room, pointedly ignoring Alfie as he scans the pages. For his part, Alfie continues to hungrily slurp down the stew, for once in his life remaining in silence.

Tommy tries to lose himself in the day’s news and act like there’s nothing unusual about the situation they’ve found themselves in. But he can’t help noticing the looks Alfie keeps shooting him when he thinks Tommy’s not paying attention. It puts his teeth on edge, feeling that gaze continually shift in his direction. The looks seem to be searching for something, asking silent questions, and they fail tremendously at hiding concern. That the looks should hold concern at all makes Tommy’s blood boil.

He curses himself for allowing Alfie to see him like that, on the beach. Curses Alfie for being so perceptive, somehow knowing about the gun to his head and that it was his hand holding it. Hadn’t said as much but the implication of his knowledge of it had been clear.

It’s one thing to allow Ada glimpses into the chaos overtaking his mind. Even on occasion Lizzie. But Alfie Solomons is an entirely different story, because this is a man that has crossed him more than not through the years. Someone certainly _not_ to be trusted, despite the fact Tommy has chosen to do so time and again.

But that’s not right. It’s not as if he has truly ever trusted him, in all this time. After that first betrayal, he’d always counted it a possibility. He went to him more in necessity, each time with uncharacteristic optimism- or maybe characteristic arrogance- assuming _this_ time Alfie wouldn’t dare, and that he would emerge unscathed. Really, it was a forgone conclusion.

It had always been a strange combination of disappointment and relief he felt when Alfie inevitably ended up giving in to his worst instincts and fucking Tommy over. As if some part of him actually yearned for the betrayal, took comfort in Alfie’s consistent unpredictability.

Whatever the past, he’s sharply aware now of how vulnerable he’d allowed himself to be on the beach. Letting Alfie not just witness it but touch him lightly and take his gun. What the fuck had he been thinking?

Through it all, Tommy pretends to read the paper.

When Alfie retires for the night, grumbling about long days and unwelcome company, he points Tommy in the direction of the guest bedroom. But Tommy stays seated by the fire and lets out a relieved breath at finally being left alone, free from Alfie’s watchful gaze.

The relief doesn’t last long.

Soon the shadows of the room grow menacingly long, and his mind shifts from contemplating Alfie to buzzing with jarringly erratic thoughts.

Grace reemerges, but he squeezes his eyes tight to shut her out. Tries to focus on what the fuck he is going to do, now. It doesn’t help. He thinks of Lizzie and the disappointed glares she so often fixes him with. Of Charlie and Rosy, desperate to make themselves small when he enters a room. Of Ada’s pitying eyes, poorly masked disgust underneath. Of Arthur, already so unhinged, staring at him like a petrified child. Of Polly’s last, loathing look. Of Michael’s betrayal. Of the Chinese, the Italians, the Titanic Boys, the Billy Boys, the Odd Fellows, the Branch, Churchill, Mosley.

They circle him like vultures.

He launches himself from the chair, desperate for a release from his spinning thoughts. Whiskey gone, laudanum gone. What did he do with his cigarettes?

He stumbles downstairs to his coat but finds the case in his pocket empty. Knowing he’ll find more in the car, he walks out the front door. In the glove compartment he finds a new pack, and, hands trembling, he brings one to his lips and lights it, and then reaching further his free hand finds the blue veil. He pulls it out and takes a deep sniff.

The smoke and snow cut through his muddled thoughts expertly.

He sits for a long while, letting the cocktail take him over, efficiently counteracting his earlier consumption of whisky and opium. He leans back, sucking down one cigarette after another until it is finally clear not what he should do, but what he should _not_. Solidifying that his instinct to retreat to Margate was the only plausible possibility.

Decision made, he heaves himself from the car and heads back into the house.

\--  
Alfie is dreaming of his mother’s latkes when a distant voice wakes him. He resists it, wanting to keep himself wrapped in the warm, soothing smells coming from his mother's kitchen. But the voice is persistent, and Alfie feels himself being pulled rudely into wakening.

“Alfie,” Tommy’s voice is low and raspy, and Alfie can feel his hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly. Alfie squints open his eyes.

It’s still dark out, the only light coming from the moon, glancing off Tommy’s sharp features as he hovers over Alfie.

“Tommy?” Alfie’s voice barely registers, and he clears his throat heavily, moans as he shifts himself up slightly. “The fuck time is it?”

“Dunno, late. Past midnight. Listen, Alfie,” -Alfie’s sleep-laden mind dully notes the sense of urgency in Tommy’s voice and his gut clenches anxiously- “What did you do with my gun?”

Alfie blinks. Once, twice. Again, clearing the last cobwebs of sleep. He sits up fully now.

“ _What?_ ”

He takes a pause, narrows his eyes darkly trying to get a better measure on Tommy. Wrap his head around getting dragged from sleep into this...whatever it was. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it. Registers wildly that Tommy Shelby is in his _bedroom_ and that he is practically naked under his covers. He feels heat rise treacherously to his face, but his direction of thought is quickly interrupted by Tommy.

“My gun, Alfie,” Tommy repeats.

He huffs out a loud, irritated sigh. Tommy has often ignited incredulity in Alfie, but certainly never to this degree.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Mhm? I know you didn’t just wake me in the middle of the goddamn night, tear me from dreams of me mum's cooking, to ask about your fucking gun, yeah? Cause that’d be lunacy, Tom. Fucking lunacy.”

Tommy ignores this.

“Need it back, Alfie. I’ve got things to do.”

Alfie grabs his pocket watch from the bedside table, reading it in the moonlight. Deadpans incredulously, “At one fucking thirty in the morning.”

“Yes.” Tommy’s tone is clipped and serious, and Alfie can tell he is in one of his no-nonsense moods (isn’t he always?) where he has no patience for inefficiency. Such moods work against Tommy when it comes to Alfie. Because, naturally, as soon as Alfie clocks them, he can’t help but become as difficult as possible, just to spite the man. Can’t help the flutter of delight he feels when Tommy’s eyes darken with annoyance at Alfie’s meandering, has to hold back a grin while he watches him struggle to maintain cool and not snap impatiently at him.

So now he lets out a long breath, eyes boring into Tommy, and lets his words seep out slowly. “And who you gonna use it on, Tom?” _Yourself?_ Alfie wonders, but knows better than to give voice to the question.

“I’m not. Just need it, can’t go where I’m going unarmed.”

“Jesus,” Alfie rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Thought we already covered this, eh mate? Little gypo nutjobs can’t just drive off when they’ve been drowning themself in whiskey and god knows what else. Not going to make it far without that car you can’t drive, are you?”

Tommy heaves a deep sigh, slides his hand in his front pocket, fetching out keys that he jingles in Alfie’s face. “I’m fine. Found me keys. And you threw my whiskey into the fucking sea, Alfie, remember?”

Alfie ignores that last comment and searches Tommy’s face, realizes he’s right; the exhaustion is still etched into his features, but his eyes are sharp, clear of the fog they’d held earlier. Maybe a bit too sharp, as if it were taking considerable effort to keep them locked on Alfie rather than jumping erratically around the room. He is keyed up, that is for sure, but he’s sober.

Still, this is lunacy. Traipsing off on some mission, an idiotic one no doubt, at one-thirty in the morning. Tearing through Alfie’s house to find his car keys, as Alfie knows he must have, and determinedly shaking Alfie awake to retrieve his gun, an act that would earn most a sound beating at minimum. It reeks of dangerous impulsivity.

Alfie conjures his most condescending tone. “Listen, _sweetie-_ “ But Tommy’s low on patience and interrupts him.

“Alfie, just tell me where the fucking gun is, yeah? Then you can go back to your mum's cooking.”

Alfie lets out a throaty sound of contemplation, starring steadily at Tommy. He’s tired, for obvious reasons, and suddenly finds himself with little energy to play the dam attempting to hold back the force that is Tommy. And really, once Tommy Shelby gets something into that thick skull there’s none that can stop him, not even Alfie. So, playing at this is moot, a waste of effort, and Alife is too tired to even enjoy the grim satisfaction he usually gets from being a hindrance.

He gives up. If Tommy wants to storm out into the night on some bullshit crusade, that’s his fucking business.

He snakes his hand beneath the pillow behind him and pulls out Tommy’s gun. Tommy quirks an eyebrow, reaches in and grabs it, and as he turns on his heel to leave says, “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

“Not fucking necessary!” Alfie yells after him. He gets no reply, and he blinks into the vacant darkness, mind grappling to make sense of what’s just happened.

What the _fuck?_

Alfie groans, runs his hands over his face, and silently curses his drug-addled mind for having written that damn letter and alerting such an unhinged madman to his nondeath. Practically asking for trouble. “Fucking hell,” He says to the room, and slowly sinks back down into his covers, willing sleep to return.

It doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to not dedicate one chapter to one POV this time. Hope it still plays well!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first PB fanfic, and my first fanfic in probably two decades. It's crapshoot from here on out. Feedback appreciated!


End file.
